


trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images

by paxlux



Series: howl [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We need a hunt, Sam says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images

**Author's Note:**

> AU after Season 3. Disturbing situations, psychosis, slight bloodplay.

The night is black and the clock is very red in the dark. 3:42 3:42 3:42 3:43 and Bobby isn't sure what woke him until his phone rings again.

He's too sleepy to look at the caller ID, just flips it open with a Yeah.

Bobby, hey, it's Sam. His voice vibrates through the phone, like he's shaking or being shaken on the other end.

Hey, Sam. You know what time it is?

No, uh, no. Is it late? Sam says and there's brakes squealing in the background and a jostling on the line. You fucker, I'm on the phone!

Oh, bite me, you pansy-ass wuss, it's just a semi! Dean's yelling over the sound of road noise and the long blast of a truck horn. Fuck you very much, you road-hogging bastard! Fuck you! I _will_ shoot out your tires! Hand me my gun, Sammy.

You had it last.

Gunfire and Sam's laughing, so hard he's gasping.

Bobby sits straight up. Sam?

A loud breath between laughs and then Sam's saying, Yeah, Bobby, no, asshole, put down the gun, we need a hunt.

Uh, it's. Bobby squints at the clock. Lemme call you back.

You asleep or something?

Yeah, kid, that's what people do at four in the morning.

Dean says something, yelling out the window and Sam's muttering on his end, No, stop it, motherfucker, _stop it_ , I'm on the phone, don't play chicken while I'm on the phone, _I can't watch you_ play chicken if I'm on the phone, bastard.

Then hang up, dumbass, it's an easy solution, Dean says, then another gunshot cracks the line like a whip.

There's night terrors and then there's night terrors, these two like the howling incarnate and Bobby pictures them hurtling through the night, the headlights weaving as Dean drives like he's demon-shy, screeching out of Hell.

Like he did. Like he is. Like he has been. Like they both are, rising from the depths with screams in their mouths that are twisted to sound like each other's names.

There's night terrors and these aren't the kind Bobby's used to, but he's adjusting a damn sight faster than he likes, so he tries to sound calm as he says, Sam, whaddya need.

A hunt, Bobby, a hunt, Sam says over the push of the wind on the other end and it sounds like a war cry when Dean starts chanting, one word, hunt hunt hunt hunt.

I can’t find anything lately, he continues. Nothing online, nothing in the newspapers. It's too fucking quiet.

And we're _bored_ , Dean says, his voice swerving close and Bobby can almost see him leaning against Sam to reach the phone.

Sam repeats it, Yeah, we're bored, and Bobby can hear the smile, hear the grin, huge as he says it, and Dean can see it on his end because in the background, he says, You beautiful sonuvabitch, c'mere.

No, hold on.

No, you c'mere. Now.

No, you will hold the fuck on.

Sounds of another tussle and a whine of tires over the phone.

Bobby's out of bed and searching around for clothes because there's no way he's going to sit on his ass like a bump on log while the boys are out there flying low and fast on the roads in the middle of the night looking for something to do. Sam, he says, _Sam!_

Yeah, I'm here, Sam says and he's breathless and Bobby doesn't want to know why.

You two get your asses up here and I'll find you a hunt.

Thanks, Bobby, we'll be there soon.

Soon, Dean shouts. Sammy, you get your filthy mouth—

Greedy fuck, make you work for it. You are _so fucking spoiled_ —

The call disconnects.

Bobby puts his head in his hands.

3:53 3:53 3:53 3:53 3:54

**

There's a rumble in the distance, but it's growing louder, growling with that black engine note.

Then there's the noise of fast tires and loose gravel.

Then there's boots on the porch and a knock on the door.

And Bobby should know better. But he'll be damned if he doesn't open the door for those boys.

So maybe he isn't sure that he should care to know better.

Especially when they're at his door, eyes like light on knives, and Dean says, Hey Bobby, and Sam echoes him, Bobby, hey, man.

Boys, he says, nodding, standing aside and they swoop past him. They smell like dust and sweat, old leather seats and cigarette smoke. But not blood. The last time they swung by, they smelled of old blood and too many fights, bruises on their faces and arms.

Mind if we crash here, Dean says and Sam nods, hair falling over his forehead as he says, Yeah, it sucks to be this quiet.

It's like a match to a firework because Dean grins, sharp teeth, and says, Yeah, we're bored.

And so Bobby says fast, I 'member. You chuckleheads can stay here. Got some chores probably need doin' anyway.

He's not about to say no, not about to let them leave if they're bored and itching for something to do. They can hardly stand still anyway and they've barely made it to his kitchen, Dean fiddling with everything he can reach, touching the cabinets, the chairs, Sam, the sink, and Sam's circling the table, like it's ritual.

Why don't you two go haul in your gear, Bobby says. And I'll check my beer stock.

Sure thing, Sam says, coming out of his spiral and as he heads back out with Dean as his shadow, Bobby realizes he's unconsciously put space between them, backed away from the two of them. The two he knows best in the world, the two he'd take a bullet for and he's trying to keep his back towards the wall and there's a hidden shotgun at his fingertips.

His hands don't shake, but it feels like they are. He’s not afraid, it’s more like common sense, more like training and he knows they won’t hurt him.

He fixes his cap.

He listens to them walk out to the car, shuffling together and Dean says low, Remember, the last good. Behave.

You fucking behave, Sam says, and then there's doors creaking open and Bobby has to go be busy, checking food, checking the spare room, checking his liquor supply.

They sweep in, bags hanging off them and Dean's saying, I'm not the one who forgot to pay for the gas last time.

Sam calls over his shoulder, That bathroom was filthy. Might teach 'em a lesson.

Oh yeah?

They disappear into the house as Sam says, Lucky I didn't decide to use their pumps as target practice.

Dean says, They did have some nice big windows on that building.

Bobby needs to keep them here until he can find a hunt for them to throw off their energy. It's crackling black around his house, bouncing, ricocheting as he hears a thump and then muffled laughter and Dean going, Fuck, _fuck_ , waitwaitwait.

It's thick, sparking, and he's surprised his walls haven't caught fire.

Like hellfire.

They seem to carry it everywhere they go.

But Bobby lets that thought go, like the ghosts of so many others since the boys came back.

He knows them.

He does. He _does_.

**

There aren't any hunts.

Told ya, Sam says, shrugging his shoulders and Dean rolls his eyes to the patched devil's trap on the ceiling.

Fucking fabulous, he says, and Bobby sighs.

Dunno what you're complainin' 'bout, it's not like something won't pop up soon. You know that, he points out and Dean keeps staring up at the lines and curves of the trap. You two just stay here a few days. Take a break.

Sam smirks and says, Yeah, Dean, take a break.

Dean bares his teeth in a smile at the devil's trap and it's a strung-out moment because Bobby isn't sure they'll agree to stay for long, regardless of what they said an hour ago. He knows there's some pull on them, moon-crazy, blood-addled, something he's never seen on anyone else before, the way they move, circling each other, the way they make sure they know how to get out.

But Dean lifts one shoulder and says, Might as well.

Bobby isn't relieved. He's protecting someone, him or them or. Someone.

**

They shoot the shit together for a while, the boys catching him up on their shotgun-and-exhaust mayhem though Dean sometimes starts to run on at the mouth and Sam kicks him, growls, The _only_ good, and Dean clamps down though his eyes burn with all the fun, his fingers twitching, the memories coming back like a fast night of hard drinking.

They tripped over a nest of wraiths, I didn't even know wraiths _nested_ , Sam says and Dean says, What you don't know could fill the Grand Canyon, Sammy.

And they smile at each other, old days, golden days, smiles from the time before and Bobby wants to pretend nothing's changed.

Nothing's changed. They're still dangerous because Dean starts laughing and says, Sam almost took me out that night, and something like dark promise crosses Sam's face, and Dean makes a small waving motion, _bring it on_ , something like dark promise of his own answering Sam.

Bobby wants to pretend nothing's changed.

**

The whiskey was probably a bad idea. But that was only half a bottle and now Sam's holding a new open bottle and Bobby laughs into his beer as Sam tries to pour it straight into Dean's mouth.

It’s four in the afternoon and they’re getting drunk and Bobby hopes maybe it’ll temper them a bit, dampen whatever filaments are sparking hot and bright inside them.

Dean smacks out at Sam, Get that fucking away from my face, you trying to fucking drown me?

And Sam says, What, you can’t handle a little liquid in your face?

Then Dean’s eyes cut over to Bobby, and he’s sliced clean on the green edge, honed and keen as Dean leans over and whispers something in Sam’s ear.

Sam’s smile curls as Dean talks and then he’s laughing, head thrown back and when Dean tries to take the bottle from him, it’s a scuffle that ends because Sam falls off his chair.

The bottle smashes on the floor, whiskey spraying everywhere and Sam sits in the puddle, laughing as Dean kneels next to him in the liquor, picking through the glass shards.

The air suddenly pulls tight and Bobby’s got his beer to his mouth, waiting.

Sammy, Dean says, voice pushed deep, and Sam grins when he sees what Dean’s holding.

A huge curved shard, Dean rubbing his fingertip along a broken edge and then it cuts him, blood dripping into the alcohol.

Sam’s eyes are wide, glazed, like he’s in a trance and he licks his lips and Bobby stands so fast he almost breaks a tooth on his beer bottle.

Here, Dean, he says, holding his hand out for the shard. Give it here.

But Dean doesn’t move like he heard him, kneeling, staring at his brother with his hand bleeding and the glass jagged in his fingers, and Sam reaches over to stir the blood in the puddle of whiskey.

 _Dean,_ Bobby says again and Dean jumps. Bobby still has his hand out and he waves it now, gimme. He won’t say please.

Dean swallows, his gaze blazing out briefly, like he might want to start a fight, but he simply passes the shard to Bobby.

You go bandage that and Sam and I’ll get this cleaned up.

For a second, Sam looks lost, bereft as Dean nods and stands, mumbling, Be right back.

Now, c’mon, Sam, let’s get you outta that whiskey. You’ll smell like a distillery, Bobby says, leaning down to help Sam to his feet.

Yeah, Bobby, okay.

While Sam mops, Bobby dumps the glass out back.

When he comes in from the yard, they’re standing under the devil’s trap, Sam inspecting Dean’s bandage and they talk low to each other and as Sam pokes at Dean’s injured hand, Dean scowls and Sam laughs.

Just like any other war wound.

Bobby keeps pretending.

**

They sleep like the dead.

And that’s probably the worst fucked-up metaphor Bobby’s ever thought of.

**

The pre-dawn is black and the clock is very red in the dark. 4:21 and Bobby did set an alarm, but he can’t sleep. He woke up and now he can’t sleep.

He set an alarm so he could be up before either of the boys. It’s not him keeping an eye on them, not at all, they don’t need watching while they’re here, but.

He still set an alarm. And out of nowhere, it’s going off and the clock is red 6:30 6:30 6:30.

Stumbling on the last stair, Bobby discovers he’s awake before Sam, but not before Dean. He can hear water running and the coffee pot is spluttering away in the kitchen.

Nothing computes before Bobby has coffee and so when Dean wanders into the kitchen, shirtless, in wash-faded sweatpants, his hair wet in crazy wild spikes, Bobby forgets.

Later, he’ll tell himself he’s allowed to forget.

Mornin’, Dean.

Oh hey, Bobby. Mornin’.

Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and says, You seriously need to invest in some new mattresses.

Why. Nothin’ wrong with those.

Shaking his head, Dean takes a sip instead of replying and Bobby can almost hear it: there is now.

And as Dean turns to open the fridge, Bobby catches sight of the large scar on his shoulder.

An ‘S.’ Careful carved curves. The scar tissue is thick and white, deep, like a burn or a brand.

All he can do is stare as Dean roots around, the scar stark on his skin. It’s not a new scar either, it’s older, not by much, but.

One hand holding the door open, Dean runs his other palm absentmindedly over the scar, as if it itches and as he does, Sam walks in.

Mornin’, Bobby, he says, and Bobby has to shake himself. Mornin’.

He goes back to his mug as Sam trudges over to the coffee, elbowing the fridge door as he goes by. Dude, go put on a shirt. It’s way too early.

Dean glares over his shoulder and Sam rolls his eyes. You can’t set me on fire or anything, fucker, he says, pointing. Shirt. Get one. On. You’re scaring Bobby.

There’s something black in Sam’s tone, but Bobby laughs despite the shivery shock he feels under his fingernails. S’ok, Sam, he ain’t scarin’ me none.

Yeah, I haven’t tried to yet, Dean says, smirking and he dodges away from the fridge as Sam steps up to swipe at him.

He wanders away and Sam shakes his head, grabbing the carton of eggs.

It’s nice, pleasant just about as Sam attempts to cook and almost sets fire to the stove and Dean comes back complaining that he doesn’t have any clean clothes.

As they dump out their bags, there’s too much blood, stained in large psychotic Rorschach black splotches and Bobby bites his tongue when Sam starts a pile of unsalvageables which contains most of their clothes. Dean finds a rag in tatters, long frayed strips and throws it at Sam as he confides to Bobby, Yeah, genius here got a little carried away with that shirt.

Barefoot, they end up in sweats and shirtless again even though Sam watches Dean with his eyes in slits, and his possessiveness comes off him in waves, metallic, like heated iron. And instinct kicks in; Bobby finds himself again with his back to the walls, putting space and furniture between them and him.

Sam’s got a ‘D’ on his shoulder, scarred white and deep, mirror image to the letter on Dean. It’s carved just as neatly as the ‘S’ on Dean, something that took time and painstaking effort. Time and pain and blood and Bobby can’t even imagine it. He doesn’t want to.

They do laundry and try to swindle him out of money as they play cards and the three of them drink too much coffee all through to lunch.

Dean and Bobby watch TV and Sam sits with some books, translating long passages Bobby’s underlined.  
He finds etchings of Hell and the creatures roaming its hallways, roaming the earth, and he laughs, dimpled.

Wow, these are really shitty, Sam says, They’re all _wrong_ , and Dean curls up next to him to see. They start a game of ‘what’s missing’ from each picture, keeping score and making bets against each other.

It should be fine, it should be okay, and Bobby sits down at his desk, opening a book for himself, facing down an avenging angel ready to jump off the page.

It should be fine, he thinks, it should be just like any other day, any other time he’s had the brothers in his house.

They forget he’s even there because if it’s not either of them, they don’t want to know, they don’t want to remember and Bobby loses the afternoon watching the two of them, thicker than blood and their eyes greedy like demons.

He doesn’t think about their new differences, doesn’t play ‘what’s missing.’ He doesn’t think about them piled together under the devil’s trap.

**

They’re cleaning weapons. It’s a rather humdrum pastime that’s kept them quiet for longer than Bobby would’ve thought.

He remembers the first time they were here, just after they came back from their ‘summer vacation,’ as Dean calls it, the first time they pulled out weapons in his house and cleaned them.

He remembers the loud clicking of empty chambers as they aimed and ‘shot’ at various places on each other, head, heart, belly, thigh for the artery that’ll bleed you out in no-time flat.

He remembers their laughter, like they were kids with toy guns, Sam leaning to say something soft to Dean as he held his real gun trained against Dean’s breastbone, the barrel nudging against the amulet hanging there.

He remembers Dean putting his favorite gun to Sam’s temple, brushing back his hair and Sam’s eyes went excited-bright and that look spread from Sam to Dean like an airborne toxin.

He remembers Dean with the sharpened knife, that severe motherfucker of a Bowie, and Sam offered up his arm, same as if he was offering up ice cream for his big brother to share.

He remembers the sick rolling of his stomach and how his world had cracked like poorly poured cement when Dean said _can’t do that to Bobby, he’s good, the last good._ Sam calls him ‘the only good.’

Somehow he’s all they know as good in this world, like Hell has reduced everything else to a pile of shit and ash. No amount of drinking has shaken that loose, it’s stuck in his head like an unexploded Tallboy bomb.

They’re giggling now, Dean telling dirty jokes as he closes one eye, sights down the line of a shotgun and pushes the double barrels to Sam’s forehead.

They’re so broken and he can’t put them together right. It’s like they picked up their own pieces and glued them however they could, with each other, with their brother bond, and now, they’ve got one soul between the two of them, because whatever gaps they could find, they simply patched over with themselves.

They look normal, but the crazing is there, the fine hairline fractures splitting all over them.

He remembers what they used to be like.

He remembers. And he thinks that maybe the horror is he’ll never forget.

Bobby, man, did I tell you ‘bout the time a few months ago Dean was firing at a wendigo and almost shot me in the ass? Sam says.

Dude, only to make you realize how much you’re a pain in the ass.

Oh, so you tried to do it on purpose, you back-shooting bastard.

Hell yeah, you think I can’t shoot something as big as you?

Sam rolls his eyes, affection written in his violent smile, like _look what I have to put up with._

Bobby smiles, but it probably comes out all wrong.

**

After supper, a rather tragic affair involving several burnt frozen pizzas and warm beer, Dean’s doing the dishes when he says, Bobby.

Yeah, kid.

Any of those wrecks near and dear to your heart?

Bobby makes sure he doesn’t look surprised. Or concerned. No, not really, he says. I tend to just cannibalize ‘em if I need to.

Mind if we get in little target practice? Sam says, twirling a spoon in his fingers.

Knock yourselves out.

We’ll head towards the back. Wouldn’t wanna make a mess, Dean says, winking.

It’s probably time for another beer as they finish the dishes with a minimum of fuss and water everywhere and grab up some guns and knives.

It’s probably time for another beer because they’re out of Bobby’s sight, with weapons in their hands and in their pockets and though he lives with wreckage, knows about wreckage, has seen wreckage first hand and was there when Dean rebuilt that car from the tires up through the twisted chassis, though he knows the word ‘wreckage,’ that’s not what worries him.

Because the word on the sign is actually ‘salvage.’ And that’s a whole different mess.

And it’s worth another beer as gunshots and laughter trade off.

**

They all but wear themselves out in the yard because some things never change and Bobby isn’t sure he can help it if he’s on his, uh, something beer, he’s lost count.

Not when Dean smiles and Bobby can see the effects of it in Sam’s eyes.

Not when Sam rubs at his shoulder where he’s scarred and Dean cracks a joke about Sam always shooting early.

Not when that energy’s back, the one Bobby thought had been dispersed, dying out until there weren’t even traces of. Of. Of maybe who they are now.

But when they say his name and Sam bitches about Dean’s shitty jokes and Dean complains about Sam’s lack of any sort of humor of any kind despite how Dean raised him, Bobby remembers.

He sees those boys from the time before and he sees those boys from the time now and they look the same. Overlapping. Like a photograph with double exposure.

Then Sam’s flipping a tiny throwing knife in his fingers and Dean’s watching him hungrily, not hiding it.

So Bobby goes to bed. Because hiding is sometimes better than fighting.

**

The night is really black and the clock is red and so is the faint flickering at his window.

Bobby trips over his sheets, then his jeans, then his boots and almost falls headfirst over the windowsill because something in the yard is on fire.

One of the wrecks towards the back is completely swallowed by flames.

He thinks of Dean saying _wouldn’t wanna make a mess._

His head is foggy as he puts his jeans on in the flaring dark and crams his feet into boots. That last stair is liable to kill him someday, but not today because he’s out the back door and into the cool air before he knows it.

The fire isn’t spreading, at least from what he can tell, and then he hears voices on the wind, thick and low like the smoke.

Dean. Sam. He’d know them anywhere, even if they have pushed their voices to some tone he doesn’t know, something meant just between them.

It’s damn stupid to think about sneaking up on them and it’s really damn dangerous to just attempt it, but Bobby’s always figured he was smart if he could easily recognize what was stupid and he accepted danger back when he lost his wife.

It’d be a damn sight idiotic to decide he’d given up on the Winchesters and it’d be even more impossibly harebrained to think he’d lost them in some way, so Bobby takes risks.

Close, but not too close, it’s his business only in that it’s his yard and it’s one of his wrecks currently sending flames into the sky and it’s the boys, but he’ll hold a step back, he likes his nose where it is on his face, thank you kindly.

The boys stand there, hands on their hips, surveying their handiwork like they were critiquing art and it might be in some way, some sort of masterpiece he can’t see, except that it’s fire and John raised them as closet pyromaniacs.

But there’s a flash of light in all the smoke and flame and Bobby spies Dean flicking a balisong, the blade spinning fast, open closed open closed open closed, and Sam’s got a.

Dammit.

Sam’s got a Bowie and instantly, Bobby knows he’s not welcome.

They won’t burn down the yard; they won’t burn down the house. Not when Sam still calls him ‘the only good.’ Not when Dean keeps protecting him from them. Or protecting them from him.

Someone’s protecting someone from someone else.

Bobby heads to the house. And he stays awake, watches the faint guttering of firelight on the ceiling.

**

They need it. Dean could see it in Sam’s eyes and earlier, Sam said that Dean smelled different, a little wired, a little on edge.

They’ve been trying so hard. They’ve been good, they’ve been behaving, they haven’t done anything around Bobby. They aren’t going to hurt him.

They’re taking care of him, same as he’s taking care of them, same as he always has.

But they _need_ it.

Dean laughs as Sam throws the matchbook and the busted truck is engulfed with a rush of air. And they like how the shadows look, how the shadows move, underscoring the two of them and their angles, how Sam’s eyes shine with the heat from the fire, how Dean’s smile promises just as much heat, how it’s like there’s demons come out to play as the night turns darker around them.

There’s a whirring click click click as the balisong sings in Dean’s fingers and Sam taps the tip of the Bowie against his mouth.

So, Dean, you wanna flip for it or fight for it? Sam asks, watching the truck burn.

Nah, why don’t we just see who draws first blood.

Sam rocks on his heels. Isn’t that a fight?

A huff of air and Dean says kind of high-pitched, No, Sammy, what the fuck, it’s fucking foreplay.

Guess I’ve been behaving too long, Sam whistles, smirks, his faced turned so the darkness cuts into his dimples and leaves only his teeth behind.

 _Shit_ , don’t scare me like that, asshole. Gotta knock some sense into you.

The balisong flies open and they’re kissing, blades at each other’s throats, pushed up tight and biting under jawbones and as they break apart, they drag knives and then there’s blood.

**

Dean brought a fucking blanket, I don’t fucking believe it, Dean, what the hell is going on with you, man, Sam says, licking his blood off the balisong blade, Dean’s wrist small in his grasp and he controls the pulse there as it speeds up.

Yeah, I brought a fucking blanket, what’s your fucking problem, we just did laundry, you big dummy, I don’t wanna hafta do laundry again.

Sam gapes, mouth open and red, tongue smeared glistening. Since when do you care, Dean? You can fuck in the dirt, I know. I was there. I was there many, _many_ times.

You’re such a dirty boy, dirty slutty Sammy, but c’mon, we got free laundry. It’s like. Free pie or some shit.

Fiddling with the Bowie in Sam’s grasp, he stares at the blood on the silver, how the flames catch it and make it black, because all this behaving has crossed their wires somehow, and they need to get back to car batteries and detonations, whirling police cherries at nine in the morning and late night blackout sessions with demons and strong coffee.

He twists the knife out of Sam’s hand and wipes the blade on his brother’s forearm, pulling it to his lips to lick at the taste of his blood on Sam’s skin, looking up to see Sam looking back at him, all cut-glass hard, the blood under his jaw trickling down the long curve of his throat to stain the collar of his shirt.

Fuck it, you’ve got blood on your shirt, Dean says when he stops, when he’s left a bruise and Sam laughs under his breath. Yeah, you too. Still worried about the dirt, jackass?

There’s dirt on Dean’s knees when he goes down to close his teeth around the zipper keeping him from Sam’s cock.

**

They fuck like they’ve found a hunt, like they’re chasing each other down, like they’ll never run out of bullets and they can shoot each other in the heart as many times as they like.

They fuck with their jeans pushed down their thighs, not naked because they’ve been waiting and holding their breath and they can only be patient for so long, so fucking long and it was almost too long this time.

Dean taking Sam’s cock over and over and each thrust makes them forget everything else, because fuck it all, fuck all the rest.

Sam’s hand around Dean’s neck, tugging him back and up, spine curved and belly exposed where his cock is so thick and it’s painful, Dean’s in pain, and this is how it should be all the time.

There’s dirt under their fingernails and Sam’s mouth drips bloody from Dean biting his tongue, biting his lips and Dean’s mouth drips bloody from Sam biting him back.

They fuck and forget to use the knives, forget until they’ve both come, forget until they both finally shrug out of their clothes.

Dean’s smeared with dirt and come, so he pushes Sam onto the blanket, that fucking blanket, they might have to take it with them, a souvenir of sorts from their vacation, all this behaving like tourists in a foreign country, he pushes Sam onto the blanket and cuts a path from his brother’s breastbone to his belly button and Sam arches against the knife like he’s begging.

Because he is, Dean is too, they need it, and Dean’s smudging Sam with blood and dirt and come and bruises, reclaiming Sam from the creature who wouldn’t let Dean fuck him because they couldn’t stay quiet enough, fuck the quiet, fuck the noise, but Sam was gasping red and wet, Bobby’s house, we’re in Bobby’s house.

It’s like hallowed ground, but now they’re out of the radius, the fire breaking proximity and the holy wards held inherent in Bobby’s name, so they’re going to fuck out here until their skin is blood-streaked and the knives are too slippery to hold.

Fucker, wasting time, Sam says, C’mon c’mon _c’mon_. This isn’t enough, he needs his brother, needs his red fingers digging into Sam and pulling, and Dean’s staring at him, messy and fucked and it isn’t enough, shit.

So Sam grabs him, grabs his hand around the knife and pushes the point into the vulnerable veins of Dean’s elbow and Dean gasps, a tiny noise Sam wants to eat as much as he wants to get his mouth around the blood running down Dean’s arm.

The heat from the fire is making them slick, sliding them together and Dean uses his fingertips to feed Sam, drop by drop, teasing, until Sam’s eyes flash and then they’re fighting or fucking or just reminding each other of how it always is, of how it will never change.

And they would scar each other more if they could, as their blood races hot to the blade, again and again.

Maybe they will.

**

Sam wants to burn something. It seems appropriate. Like a sort of ‘out with the old, in with the new,’ but that doesn’t completely make sense because they’re not new, they haven’t traded for this or thrown anything away.

More like ‘to old times’ and that works better, so Dean says, Fine, dude, whaddya wanna burn.

The truck’s still blazing pretty well and they consider it, the heat warring the night air nice on their skin, and Dean flicks blood off his hand into the flames.

Well, there’s the blanket.

It’s not ours.

You really think Bobby would want it back? Sam asks, pointing at it, slits in the plaid, black dirt, and the stains are already starting to show slick.

Dean doesn’t say, I wanna remember, he doesn’t say, I don’t wanna forget, because he can’t anyway, Sam his blood and bones, his eyes and stitches, his broken pieces and bullet holes and knife edges.

He snatches the blanket from the ground and tosses it into the truck bed and they watch the threads catch fire.

Sam grins.

Hand on Sam’s hip, Dean licks across his shoulders and they sigh together.

**

They walk back to the house, they don’t sneak, we aren’t lowlife sneaking motherfuckers, Dean says, and Sam nods yeah yeah.

They dump their clothes in the washer, so they won’t forget in the morning.

They fill buckets and throw water at the fire and get goosebumps from the sizzling sounds.

They walk back to the house, they don’t sneak.

Bobby hears the shower running, hears whistling and catcalls, hears the two of them stumbling around downstairs, rowdy and somewhat safe.

He finally falls asleep.

**

In the morning, it’s a feeble gray-yellow outside and the coffee is really strong because Dean dumped a bunch in the filter instead of measuring it out.

The crackling energy’s back, but it’s different, guide wire different, contained in a conduit between the boys instead of sparking out chaotic, reaching for whatever it can find to slam into the ground.

Bobby just watches them, still circling each other, still circling his table like it’s the next steps in a plan, still smiling like nostalgia.

Dean heads out to tinker on the Impala and Sam gets Bobby into a discussion about demons and this is Bobby’s family album.

Even if the photos are double exposed.

**

He finds three hunts at the same time he finds Sam in a doorway with a knife, measuring something with the blade.

Sam?

Hey, Sam says without turning and Bobby waits, but Sam doesn’t say anything else.

Looks like there’s evil needs killin’.

That booming laughter, like Fourth of July, and Sam finally gives Bobby his attention with a full-on smirk. Yeah, I figured it wouldn’t take long.

When he finds out, Dean shifts from foot to foot in excitement and anticipation and something Bobby can’t put his finger on, something that makes Dean’s smile cut sideways, but then Dean says, Yes, it’s about motherfucking time.

They grin at him, delighted children waiting for an amusement park ride.

And out of the blue, Bobby can see new cuts and bruises, Sam’s split lip and Dean’s arm is dark purple at the elbow and they have mirror image dried blood on their throats.

Nothing’s changed and everything’s stayed the same.

They grin at him, and he hands over the hunting information, a shapeshifter, a water wraith and a possible haunting, oh fuck this shit, another haunting, Dean says, what the hell is it with hauntings?

Didja show Bobby your scar? Sam asks, ignoring Dean’s indignant expression.

Dean flips Sam off, stomping in the direction of their room and Sam yells, At least we won’t be bored!

Scar? Bobby asks and he really shouldn’t, but he needs to know if they aren’t calling him about bad injuries and stupid mistakes.

Yeah, we’ve both got new scars. Last haunting, Sam says, tipping his head to indicate a little time ago. He stabbed me, Bobby, it was pretty fucking hilarious.

Then with a laugh and a shrug, Sam turns back to the doorway, back to his measuring, the knife making marks in the old paint.

**

They leave that afternoon. There’s another hunt to replace the haunting because Dean’s being a fucking fraidy-cat and he doesn’t want to do it, as Sam says, frowning at Bobby, he’d rather have a ‘change of pace.’

A change of pace from stabbing his brother, Bobby almost says, but he doesn’t, just nods, Yeah, I can understand that. Ghosts are downright irritating as hell.

Standing on his porch, they hug him, Dean first, then Sam, and they feel feverish to him, and their eyes are bright against the gray of the day, but they seem fine otherwise.

The weak-water sunlight briefly casts shadows and the boys walk shoulder to shoulder, but from the porch, it looks like they only have one shadow.

The car revs like Dean’s holding it back and they’re off, flying gravel and a black streak, engine growling hellfire down Bobby’s driveway.

But he doesn’t want to think like that, it’s not true anyway.

He finds their bundled-up filthy clothes in the washer and goes to get his phone to call them.

Then he sees it, the doorway where he found Sam.

Carved deep into the door lintel, even and neat, almost like runes (Sam with his knife, measuring).

 _the only good_

**

Bobby calls to tell them about their clothes, they can swing by next time they’re near to pick them up. He calls because it’s how he knows to keep an eye on them when they’re out of his sight. He calls because he knows how quickly things burn.

It goes to voicemail, Dean’s voicemail, Dean’s voice a little different from whenever he recorded it, different how he says if it’s an emergency to call his brother Sam.

It goes to voicemail and Bobby leaves his message.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg, which I am only humbly borrowing. I took liberties (as far as I know) with the layout of Bobby's house and the yard and just about everything else within Bobby's house, including the people.


End file.
